


Wear Me Whole

by Megan



Category: Homestuck
Genre: BDSM, Breathplay, Community: bucketlist, Community: kink_bingo, Edgeplay, Eridan has an attention kink, F/M, Needles, Non-Penetrative Sex, Objectification, Piercings, Rose has a Lovecraft kink, Sadism, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megan/pseuds/Megan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are pinioning your very own eldritch abomination on your personal collection board, an admirable trophy piece for anyone who considers herself a connoisseur of things that whisper in the darkest corners of the universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wear Me Whole

**Author's Note:**

> And then instead of finishing my WIPs I went for a mobius double reacharound fill for both bucketlist and kink_bingo. I regret nothing.
> 
> (Prompt was _He solicits her for blackrom in person, and she takes him up on it._
> 
>  _...And it turns out Eridan is the one who is wildly unprepared for it. Possibly Rose has been reading BDSM websites. Possibly she has her grimdark powers. Either way, there is a lot of topping and painplay and it's way more than Eridan was expecting._ )

His skin isn't quite slick, but there's a sort of plasticine smoothness to it that almost fools your fingers into believing he is, that there's a barely-there layer of water between the two of you. It's unsubtly different from Kanaya's, which gives one the impression of a fine-grained suede rather than the almost rubbery pliability to his. It puts you to mind of something that should be living deep in the ocean, something that only rises but once every five centuries to bring terror and madness to anyone who looks upon it. Yes, he could very easily be some servant of a cephalopod-beaked elder god; not the real horrorterrors, no, but the fantastic, thousand-armed creatures of your books who strike deals even more ruthless and destructive than the one that had made you grimdark.

The very thought of that is enough to make you blush; it's the entire reason you ever agreed to entertain his ridiculous flirtation at all, and why you've kept it up even after proving to him that there will be no equitable black romance here.

Eridan normally whines when you spend so much time contemplating him, his breathy inability to annunciate hard consonants rolling and softening the r that begins your name so that it comes out _Rros_ as he demands you pay him the attention he wants rather than the attention he's earned. He's quiet now, though, because his head is in the bathtub. It's an elegant solution to the problem of gagging someone who doesn't need his mouth to draw air into his vocal apparatus, to let the water muffle his words down to a secret conversation between it and him. And he knows by now that if he lifts his head up, you'll shove his face down but keep his gills above water until he's inches from drowning in water and asphyxiating in air at the same instant. So he does as he's told and keeps his head down, even though he has to be struggling to breathe; it's brackish, barely salted enough to filter through his gills.

You slide the first needle across his back, light enough to elicit no more than a shiver from your tamed abomination. It's one of a set you've alchemized from an old set of needlewands and Kanaya's sewing needles; it is not your usual set, which have an ordinary set of knitting needles as their first ingredient. You've never played with these before, except to test them on yourself. It wouldn't do to go in blind; you'd needed to know what these would do. Touching them to the body elicits a pleasant tingling that amplifies to a shocking heat when pierced through the skin; in other words, they are perfect for your purposes. A harder press of the needle (enough to leave a violet welt raised from his skin) makes him thrash a little under the water, but he doesn't rise. He won't, not until his desperate need for air becomes stronger than the peculiar determination he gets when you've well and _pushed_ him.

He's scratching long lines in the porcelain of the stubbornly human bathtub you've managed to alchemize (you aren't sure why in the world Dave had seashells in his sylladex, but you certainly don't question their efficacy in alchemizing your bathroom, your bone china tea set, and any number of other things that you prefer not to have the trollish equivalents of), but they're shallow. His claws are losing the war with the ceramic, as they always do; they've been dulled down so much from such things that he's simply started filing them down to avoid the ragged-looking mess they inevitably become. From what Kanaya has told you, it's humiliating for him to wear his claws so short.

It's one thing he has never uttered a single complaint about, not in the midst of the worst of his melodramatic tirades.

"Stop that," you tell him, even though he can understand you about as well as you can him. His ears have adapted to hear underwater as well as they do in the air, true enough, but that doesn't mean sound travels between the two easily. You prick him with the needle, right on his left shoulder blade, to help get your point across. It works, and he stills save for his labored breathing as he kneels down over the bath.

You put the needle back in the case and take out your pen, which you have rescued from your brother's unfortunate habit of drawing badly caricatured genitalia all over Karkat just to hear him shriek. The purple ink is barely visible on the lavender flush to his skin, which is exactly why you've chosen it for this; it's visible enough to guide your hand, but subtle enough on him that it won't distract you when the job is done and you're admiring your own handiwork. Slowly, one by one, meticulously-drawn pairs of tiny x marks appear under your hand to map out where you'll thread the needles through his back. You linger in drawing the last few, wanting to time things just right, and are rewarded for it when he breaks the surface and begins gulping down air just as you finish the final one.

He stays on his knees, back to you, and rests his face on his folded arms on the side of the bathtub. He doesn't make any attempt to look at what you're doing behind him. _As if you could hurt me_ , he'd sneered the first time you had done this-- and never again, not after you'd shown him that you could indeed hurt a mighty seadweller with your human hands and tiny, alchemized implements.

"Hold still or these will go crooked." The appeal to his vanity works better than most directions, and his shoulders stay admirably still even when you push the first needle through and through. You think it's the heat that has him taking great stuttering breaths more than anything; what had been a pleasant shock of heat in your skin has to be racing through his chilled blood like he's on fire. He holds still like the needle is keeping him in place, as if he's an insect and you've just pinned him to a board.

That particular line of thought is _thrilling_. Yes, you are pinioning your very own eldritch abomination on your personal collection board, an admirable trophy piece for anyone who considers herself a connoisseur of things that whisper in the darkest corners of the universe.

You don't adorn him with too many, of course; you want the few needles that _are_ there to be prickling-hot points of focus for him, not part of one indistinct line of fire across his whole back. Even going slowly, savoring every trilling, alien sound he makes, it's finished quickly. He's allowed to say things that aren't intelligible words; you're certain some of them mean things in Alternian, but it suits your imaginings and so you don't call him on the cheat.

"There," you murmur in his ear, and his gills shiver and fan out as the moisture in your breath hits them. They're flushed violently purple, blood drawn to the surface from his struggle to breathe in water not _quite_ salty enough to sustain him. "Now what should I do with you, now that you're properly tagged?"

You slide another needle out of the case, but this time you trace it lightly across the spines of his gills; he lets out a choked sound when you whisper it past the cartilage and over the delicate, blood-flushed membranes that reflexively open for you every time you exhale onto them. When you press harder and draw a trickle of blood, he lets out a shaky breath and _relaxes_ , the bathtub suddenly taking more of his weight than his legs.

"With the ridiculous amount of jewelry you wear, I'm surprised you don't have rings here." Trolls don't seem fond of piercing themselves in general, you've noticed; no earrings, no nose rings, nothing like that. "That's what humans do, you know, poke their jewelry right through their skin to keep it in place."

There's no answering _that's upright disgustin_ from him, just a soft, almost humming exhalation as you trace the needle over the place you'd like to push it right through. You could, and it wouldn't even be _wrong_ ; one of the things he likes to complain about is that he doesn't have a flashy declaration of your caliginous intent scarred across his skin, so clearly he is amenable to permanent marks. And it would look _lovely_ , a delicate gold ring threaded right through the twilight-colored cartilage that would never be better than in the purple-flushed moment just after you've pierced it.

You can and so you _do_.

Sterilizing it is a matter of the proper application of your actual needlewand; certainly there is a time and a place for a long, drawn out procedure involving alcohol or heat, but that time is when he's flat on his back and watching you work. Now there is no audience but yourself, and _you_ don't need to be intimidated into behaving. He shakes a little when you do the same to him, a tap of the needlewand against the strange, almost frilled lattice of membranes that make up the gills on either side of his face. The ones lining his sides are less interesting, nothing but gashes in his flesh that gape open when he’s underwater; sometimes you can see the faint puff of them if he’s particularly affronted or you’ve pushed him harder than he expects, but they simply don’t fan out the way the ones framing his face do. The sudden flare of purple probably has as much to do with his hatred for your insistence that this is _magic_ and not _science_ you’re using on him as it does the feel of the needle on him.

He shakes a little when you do the same to him, a tap of the needlewand against the strange, almost frilled lattice of membranes that make up the gills on either side of his face. The ones lining his sides are less interesting, nothing but gashes in his flesh that gape open when he’s underwater; sometimes you can see the faint puff of them if he’s particularly affronted or you’ve pushed him harder than he expects, but they simply don’t fan out the way the ones framing his face do. The sudden flare of purple probably has as much to do with his hatred for your insistence that this is _magic_ and not _science_ you’re using on him as it does the feel of the needle on him.

He _keens_ when you put the needle through, a long, reedy sound that shivers only slightly more than every muscle in him as the alchemized steel bites through cartilage. By the time you’re through he’s bright-eyed but shaking, and his movements are almost drunk as he relinquishes his grip on the bathtub and turns around on shaky legs to face you— he’s trying to loom over you with a lanky adolescent height he doesn’t know how to wear effectively yet. Nit that it does anything except fail, because for every inch of height he has over you there is a needle pushed through his skin, the dullness of his claws, a violet paint-spatter of bruises across his skin, and now the tiny loop you’ve tagged him with. You and he both know full well that he’s a _domesticated_ abomination called to your small, well-turned heel.

Normally you would keep a respectable, clinical distance from him, sate your scientific curiosity about his stygian physiology and nothing more. But now— shaking, adorned and bleeding and open for you— you cannot help but reach out and pinch his untouched set of gills between your fingers just to hear him draw in a sharp breath. He seems _relieved_ that you don’t expect him to reciprocate in kind during these meetings; he has no obligation except to take your caliginous attentions without cracking under the pressure because _your_ only desire in this situation is to _give_ that attention.

“Humans reely do this?” He asks you, and you can _hear_ the drawn-out vowels that say he’s still using that affected seadweller dialect even while he’s well and truly breathless by now. When you push your hair back behind your ear and show him one of your earrings (pink diamond chips, a passive-aggressive gift on your ninth birthday) his eyes widen. For a culture that involves ritualized violence and normative sadomasochism, trolls have an _astounding_ squeamishness about the idea of piercing.

“Some of us do it more than once, even,” you go on. You’ll save the fact that _more than once_ can mean a dozen or more for another day, once he’s used to the idea of having _one_.

“Humans are crazy,” he moans, almost reverent at the altar of human depravity. His cultural influence on a host of Roman emperors and an even greater surfeit of terrible pirate romances is more evident than it’s ever been.

“Hardly.” You go back to his gills as you correct him, leaving the new piercing alone and instead focusing your attention on the feather-soft membranes strung tight between spines of cartilage and cool, chitinous skin.

Eridan’s long, skinny thighs have been streaked with faint lines of purple since you first pushed his head underwater, but now his bulge is fully out for the first time. It’s flushed bright and writhing against his thigh; he doesn’t dare allow himself to lose control and reach for you with it without permission. _This_ is perhaps the most perverse reward of your endeavor, the single most unearthly thing about him. Every other eccentricity about him drives you to flay him open and take copious notes on what you find inside, but the coil and flex of muscle around your hand when you press it up against him does nothing but fascinate you in an entirely different way.

You can’t lay him down on the floor with the needles in him, and as alluring as the idea of him gasping at saltwater in his wounds is, he still occasionally gets the urge to reciprocate one of your caliginous gestures. The bathtub is the _last_ place you want to be, should he get any ideas. That leaves on his knees on the floor, which happens to be one of the positions seem to default into anyway— the missionary position, as practiced by a species that copulates perched over whatever receptacle will catch their genetic material.He goes down like sand under the surf, still shaky from whatever cocktail of chemicals floods his purple blood in response to pain, and the only part of him that doesn’t go pliantly when you sit astride his knees is his bulge; _that_ squirms forward at the first hint of body heat in front of it. It brushes up against your clit completely by accident; he still doesn’t know how to find it reliably even when he’s _not_ half drugged on sensation, because your anatomy is as fully alien to him as his is to you. You press your fingers up against the violet slashes of his gills in a shallow, retaliatory gesture.

“Keep doing that,” you tell him, just a touch more authoritarian in tone than you had perhaps intended; well, better that than to let any sort of weakness sound in your voice. He’s domesticated, not a _lap dog_. His bulge starts to squirm further forward and you have to take one of your hands from his gills to catch it mid-motion. “Do _not_ keep doing _that_.”

He makes a wordless sound of frustration, but the twisting writhe of his bulge against you feels just _gorgeous_ , firm and wet and thoroughly unnatural. Both of your hands are occupied, one holding firm to his bulge and the other still fingering the tender insides of his gill slit, and so your answering motion is to nip at one of the gills where his ears would be were he a human. It’s the one you’ve just pierced, still flushed and swollen and warmer to the touch than the rest of his skin.

“ _Please_.” That bite is finally what undoes him completely; suddenly he’s begging you, and the accompanying roll of his hips is enough for you. Your orgasm is nothing world-shattering, not even anything particularly satisfying on a normal scale; you shiver and ride it out without losing complete control. Not that you would have been in any danger even if you had; he’s still babbling vague entreaties for you to do something, _anything_.

“Please, what?” You ask him once you’ve caught your breath and managed to stand up on legs just the slightest bit shaky. His bulge lashes out fruitlessly, trying to find you again, but otherwise he doesn’t move.

“I don’t _know_ ,” comes the half-anguished reply, and you smile for the first time since you’d first locked the door behind him.

“No, you don’t,” you agree, and take him by the arm. “Come, into the bath. You’re making a mess all over my floor.”

He lets out an odd, bubbling sob when the saltwater hits the lowest pair of needle wounds, and your smile gets wider.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, uh, I should probably clarify that I'm assuming some weird vague asteroid AU where Eridan is around? And that it's close to the end of that, so they're _older than canon_ (hence lack of underage tag). Because not even Rose Lalonde is this hardcore when she's thirteen.


End file.
